


Obsession

by bactaqueen



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Body Paint, Buttsex, M/M, Steve's thigh fetish, True Love, terrible dialogue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 22:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve really likes Bucky's sexy thighs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Obsession

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Note: Because paraxdisepink asked.

At first, Steve felt guilty. Bucky was in _pain_. Bucky needed _help_. Objectifying him was _wrong_ in probably the worst ways Steve could be wrong while his best friend recovered from seventy years of brainwashing and captivity. It didn't matter _how_ good he looked stripped down to the very brief, very tight shorts, sitting there on the paper-covered exam bed. Looking at him like... like it was 1940 and he had any right to look was just _wrong_.

He didn't remember Bucky having all those muscles during the war. And he _definitely_ didn't remember those thighs.

Steve had always loved Bucky's body. First because it had been the body he wanted: strong, healthy, normal. Then because of other reasons. He'd loved Bucky at fourteen, all hands and feet and and awkward gait. And he'd loved Bucky at twenty, lean and tough from the work of loading the newspaper trucks. He'd loved Bucky at twenty-seven, when war had trimmed away all the excess and left him scarred and hard but still, unmistakably, the Bucky that Steve had always known and always loved. But this was different.

Steve couldn't stop staring at his thighs.

Bucky curled his hands around the edge of the bed and scowled. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he muttered.

Startled, Steve met Bucky's eyes. They were still the same blue. But there was a hollow look in them that Steve hated. It was like Bucky didn't trust anything, not his senses and not Steve. Not that Steve blamed him, but he so desperately wanted Bucky back that all he could think to do was fall into an old, old role.

"Why? You going somewhere again?"

Bucky blinked at him, then narrowed his eyes. Steve didn't look away, just kept one eyebrow up and a friendly smirk on his face, and he waited. The worst that could happen was Bucky would punch him and, well, he'd survived that a few times, what did once more matter?

But then Bucky snorted. "You never did know when to stop pushing."

"Oh, so you _are_ getting your memories back."

The little snort Bucky gave that time sounded to Steve an awful lot like it wanted to be a laugh, so he grinned.

When he smiled back, Steve's heart tried to climb up his throat and out through his mouth to fling itself at Bucky.

After that, Bucky pretended to ignore the way Steve stared at his thighs. But he wore shorts a lot more often.

***

Especially when they sparred. Once he'd had enough to eat and his injuries had healed and his system had purged the cocktail of drugs HYDRA had pumped him full of, Bucky was cleared to return to physical activity. His mind was still broken, a little, but it had been broken the first time Steve had sprung him from Zola, so Steve had faith. His faith was rewarded when Bucky proposed the first sparring session.

Still, he'd been wary. "I don't want to hurt you."

Bucky flashed him an imitation of his old dashing smile. "You won't. We both know I'm going to kick your ass. You like getting punched."

Steve didn't like getting punched nearly as much as he liked it when Bucky knocked him to the mat and pinned him there. He _tried_ not to like it. Bucky had said he wasn't ready for anything more than just... just this, this friendly thing between them that had always existed. This was just training. They were blowing off steam, relearning each other, relearning how to work together. But he couldn't help it. There they were, Steve flat on his back on the cold mat, and Bucky sitting on top of him. His thighs framed his chest, clamped hard so Steve had to struggle to breathe, and his knees were on Steve's upper arms. Steve stared up at him, at Bucky grinning down at him, and he hoped his shorts were baggy enough that Bucky wouldn't notice how he was _affected_.

He should have known that Bucky wouldn't need to _see_ to _know_.

Bucky leaned over. There was new light in his eyes--or maybe it was an old light Steve just hadn't seen in so long he thought it was new. His mouth was close to Steve's, his breath coffee-scented.

He murmured, "You know they got a name for fellas like you."

 _'Whipped?'_ Steve wondered. He licked his dry lips, telling himself he _was not_ trying to get a taste of Bucky. "What's that?"

Bucky's eyes flicked to Steve's mouth and Steve held his breath.

"Masochist," Bucky said, and brushed his mouth to Steve's.

It was their first kiss in seventy years and it was _heaven_. He closed his eyes and decided it was his favorite feeling in the world to be trapped between Bucky's thighs, unable to breathe and tingling all over. He grinned like an idiot and said, "I'm not a masochist, I'm a Buckyist."

Bucky groaned the way he always did when Steve said something ridiculous. "No wonder you still can't get a date."

Steve looked up at him. "Only 'cause you said you're not ready yet."

***

They were in Steve's bed and it was night. They'd drawn the shades and the curtains and the only light in the room was a sliver of it falling against the wall from the bathroom through the door they'd left open. Steve couldn't do this entirely in the dark. Bucky was naked and Steve was kneeling on the bed between his thighs. Bucky was hard, skin hot, sweat on his forehead and dampening the hair at his temples. He was holding on to the headboard, his head thrown back on the pillow, his eyes closed tight.

Steve had his hands on the backs of Bucky's knees, holding on, holding them up and holding him open, and each forward thrust rocked Bucky, the bed, the whole world. Steve could barely see through the stars in his eyes, could barely breathe for the full-up heat in his chest.

God, he'd missed this. Missed how dirty-bad-so-good it felt, with Bucky's legs spread and Steve's cock deep in his ass, the bed rocking and the headboard slamming against the brick wall. Missed the way Bucky sounded, long low moans and short sharp groans and the pained little grunts every time Steve hit him just right. Missed the way Bucky looked, turned on and turned inside out from the pleasure of it.

Steve ran a hand from Bucky's knee along his thigh and across his hip to wrap his fingers tight around Bucky's leaking, twitching cock. Bucky wrapped his newly free leg around Steve's back, holding him tight and dragging him down but doing nothing to stop the punishing rhythm of Steve's thrusts. Steve kissed Bucky, took the mouth he presented with his chin up and his lips parted, and as he sucked on Bucky's tongue Bucky came hot over his hand. The muscles of his thighs clenched, holding Steve tighter. His inner muscles clamped and Steve couldn't do it, couldn't hold back, and he spilled into Bucky's body.

He collapsed, pressed his sweaty face to Bucky's sweaty neck. When he shifted his hips to pull out, slow, they shuddered together with the aftershocks, both of them oversensitive. Steve knew he should move off of Bucky, should let him breathe and give him the chance to retreat if he needed to, but he couldn't. He just hooked Bucky's legs around his waist and mouthed at Bucky's collarbone and ran his hands up and down Bucky's strong thighs.

"I think you've got an obsession," Bucky mumbled. He ran his fingers through Steve's hair, back and forth, like he was petting a dog.

"I'm obsessed with you," Steve said stupidly.

***

The EMP that had finally killed the robot army had also downed the Quinjets, and together they'd had to run forty miles from Pym's secret hideout to the closest available extraction point. That was tough even for Steve and he was feeling it in his legs and in his arm, where the shield had gotten real heavy real fast. Bucky seemed to be feeling it worse. He was stretched on his stomach on the bottom bunk of their helicarrier quarters, his arms tucked under the thin pillow his face was hidden in.

"I think I'm going to cry," he mumbled. " _Fuck_ Pym and  _fuck_ Stark and  _fuck_ all their stupid goddamn robots."

Steve perched on the edge of the bunk and laid a hand on the back of Bucky's thigh. He squeezed gently.

Bucky moaned like a girl in a blue movie. "Do that again."

Steve's mouth went dry. He'd never heard Bucky sound like that. "You... want a leg massage?"

" _Yes_ ."

All the blood seemed to rush from Steve's brain to his cock. He felt light-headed and his lungs didn't seem to work right anymore. He closed his eyes and counted to ten in French just so he'd have to think about it, then leaned forward and opened the drawer under the bunk. He pulled out a half-empty bottle of baby oil. He shut the drawer.

Bucky peered over his shoulder, through his hair. He raised an eyebrow. "You just keep that in here?"

"You're not always around," Steve muttered. He straddled Bucky's calves.

Bucky yelped.

Steve jerked forward, shifting his weight to his knees. He winced. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just make it better."

For a while, after the battle of New York and after he'd given up entirely on dating and he'd been starved for touch, Steve had seen a massage therapist twice a week. It hadn't been anything weird--she didn't offer a "happy ending" or anything like that. But it had felt good. Especially when he'd pushed himself too hard. He thought back to the way she'd used her hands on his legs as he warmed the baby oil between his palms.

Bucky reached back to pull the legs of his shorts up so they looked less like tight boxers and more like briefs. Steve stopped salivating entirely, he was pretty sure, and there was no blood left in his brain because it was all in his cock, which he was very careful to keep off of Bucky. He couldn't  _help_ it. He set his hands to the top of one of Bucky's thighs, just under the curve of his  _perfect delicious beautiful_ ass, and ran them all the way to his knee. Bucky sighed. Given the freedom to touch as much as he liked as long as he "made it better," Steve set to work.

He ran his hands up and down Bucky's thigh, digging his fingers in a little deeper with each long stroke, until he'd spread the oil all around and Bucky's leg was warm and pliant and Bucky gave a long, contented sigh. Then he did the same thing to the other leg. He went back and forth, mapping the long strong lines of each thigh, lingering as long as Bucky let him and trying not to overstay his welcome.

So he didn't feel like a total heel, he rubbed Bucky's calves and feet, too.

By the time he finished, Bucky was sound asleep.

And snoring.

Steve locked himself in the head attached to their stateroom. He didn't bother to wash his hands before he stuck them down his pants and wrapped one around his dick and used the other to cup his balls. Thinking of Bucky's thighs under his fingers, of his ass and back and arms and the little noises of pleasure he made, Steve got himself off quickly and messily.

Afterward, he joined Bucky in the bunk. It was too narrow for the both of them but that hadn't ever stopped them before. Bucky slung a leg over Steve's hips and an arm across his chest and he pressed his face into the curve of Steve's neck. Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky's shoulders and rested a hand on his thigh. He squeezed a little, just because he could, and as he dozed off, he could have sworn he felt Bucky's lips curve in a knowing smile against his skin.

***

It was early afternoon and they were home. The sun was streaming through the big windows that looked out over the bay and Bucky was stretched out in a pool of sunlight on that hideous fake fur rug, naked and perfect and smiling. He tucked his hands under his head and spread his legs and wriggled just for show, just because he could and because he knew Steve was watching.

"What do you say?"

Bucky was fucking with him, that's what he was tempted to say. Steve rubbed his damp palms down the sides of his sweatpants and said, a little warily, "Whatever I want?"

" _Whatever_ you want, big guy."

The enormity of what Bucky was offering wasn't lost on him. It took a minute for him to get his tongue to work. "All right," he said. His voice sounded rough so he cleared his throat and tried again. "All right. Stay there. Don't move."

Bucky closed his eyes and tipped his smiling face into the sunshine. "I'm not going anywhere."

Steve did, though. He padded down the hall, into the spare room, and he dragged his box of art supplies out of the closet. There in the bottom, under a stack of new sketchbooks, was the set of body paints he'd bought on a hopeful whim months before. He took his shirt off but left his sweats on; Bucky had just given him free reign and he wasn't about to let his cock ruin it.

He took the paints back into the living room, where Bucky was still stretched out on the cheap rug in the brilliant sun, a smile on his lips and all that warm skin glowing, inviting. Steve just stood for a moment, staring dumbstruck at the shine of Bucky's hair and the thin pale lines of old scars and, most arresting of all, at his thighs.

Steve straddled Bucky's legs and dropped, settling comfortably on the flats of his shins. Bucky cracked an eye at him.

"You're heavy."

"It's all these muscles." He flexed, just a little, making his pecs dance.

Bucky laughed. He shut his eyes and shook his head but he didn't stop smiling.

Steve set the paints on the rug beside them and opened each little jar carefully. He ran his hands from Bucky's knees to his hips and back, just to feel his warm skin and the sweet catch of hairs against his palms. Bucky seemed to melt a little against the rug. Steve dipped his finger into the red paint and swiped a line of color down the center of Bucky's left leg. He smiled to himself and painted his masterpiece.

Later, on his knees in the shower, the water washed away the paint over his hands and into the drain in a rainbow. Bucky twisted his fingers in Steve's hair as Steve sucked his sweet stiff cock into his mouth.

***

Bucky straddled his lap. Steve blinked and looked up from his tablet reader, straight into Bucky's smiling face. He'd never get sick of seeing Bucky smile. He'd never get sick of having Bucky around, his to have and hold and love for as long as they both managed to live this time. Bucky's knees dug into the back of the couch, framing Steve's hips, but he didn't settle.

That's when Steve realized Bucky was wearing the skimpiest pair of briefs Steve had ever seen on a man. Bucky's thighs were bare and  _right there_ .

"Reading anything good?"

Steve pressed the button on the side of the tablet and tossed it to the other end of the couch. "Not anymore."

Bucky's eyes shone bright and knowing and the sweet promising smile on his face made Steve's body go hot and made his skin feel tight. Bucky leaned in, just a little. He put a hand on the back of the couch and put the other on the back of Steve's head.

Steve rested his hands right above Bucky's knees. His heart beat against his breastbone like a desperate bird trying to escape a too-small cage and he couldn't seem to remember how to breathe.

"So are we ever going to talk about this?" Bucky spread his knees just enough to make Steve's hands slide up his thighs.

"That depends, are we going to talk about you and the Captain America uniform?"

Smirking, Bucky said, "Nope." He leaned in until his lips were right over Steve's. "Guess we never were much for talking."

It was true.

Bucky kissed him then. He spread his legs a little wider, forcing Steve's hands higher. He kissed him slow and sweet, curling his fingers in Steve's hair and settling on Steve's lap. He let Steve touch and keep touching while they kissed and kissed.

There were worse ways to spend an evening.

**Author's Note:**

> There's now a companion piece called [Red, White, Blue, and You](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5363564).


End file.
